Part 3 (1/2)
”Oh, don't let _me_ interrupt you,” he said. ”Engaged in scientific pursuits, of course? I trust you will enjoy yourselves, my young friends.”
”You see!” said Stalky, when they were out of earshot. ”He _can't_ keep a secret. He's followin' to cut off our line of retreat. He'll wait at the baths till Heffy comes along. They've tried every blessed place except along the cliffs, and now they think they've bottled us. No need to hurry.”
They walked leisurely over the combes till they reached the line of notice-boards.
”Listen a shake. Foxy's up wind comin' down hill like beans. When you hear him move in the bushes, go straight across to Aves. They want to catch us _flagrante delicto_.”
They dived into the gorse at right angles to the tunnel, openly crossing the gra.s.s, and lay still in Aves.
”What did I tell you?” Stalky carefully put away the pipes and tobacco.
The Sergeant, out of breath, was leaning against the fence, raking the furze with his binoculars, but he might as well have tried to see through a sand-bag. Anon, Prout and King appeared behind him. They conferred.
”Aha! Foxy don't like the notice-boards, and he don't like the p.r.i.c.kles either. Now we'll cut up the tunnel and go to the Lodge. Hullo! They've sent Foxy into cover.”
The Sergeant was waist-deep in crackling, swaying furze, his ears filled with the noise of his own progress. The boys reached the shelter of the wood and looked down through a belt of hollies.
”h.e.l.lish noise!” said Stalky, critically. ”'Don't think Colonel Dabney will like it. I move we go into the Lodge and get something to eat. We might as well see the fun out.”
Suddenly the keeper pa.s.sed them at a trot. ”Who'm they to combe-bottom for Lard's sake? Master'll be crazy,” he said.
”Poachers simly,” Stalky replied in the broad Devon that was the boy's _langue de guerre_.
”I'll poach 'em to raights!” He dropped into the funnel-like combe, which presently began to fill with noises, notably King's voice crying: ”Go on, Sergeant! Leave him alone, you, sir. He is executing my orders.”
”Who'm yeou to give arders here, gingy whiskers? Yeou come up to the master. Come out o' that wuzzy! [This is to the Sergeant.] Yiss, I reckon us knows the boys yeou'm after. They've tu long ears an' vuzzy bellies, an' you nippies they in yeour pockets when they'm dead. Come on up to master! He'll boy yeou all you're a mind to. Yeou other folk bide your side fence.”
”Explain to the proprietor. You can explain, Sergeant,” shouted King.
Evidently the Sergeant had surrendered to the major force.
Beetle lay at full length on the turf behind the Lodge, literally biting the earth in spasms of joy. Stalky kicked him upright. There was nothing of levity about Stalky or McTurk save a stray muscle twitching on the cheek.
They tapped at the Lodge door, where they were always welcome. ”Come yeou right in an' set down, my little dearrs,” said the woman. ”They'll niver touch my man. He'll poach 'em to rights. Iss fai! Fresh berries an' cream. Us Dartymoor folk niver forgit their friends. But them Bidevor poachers, they've no hem to their garments. Sugar? My man he've digged a badger for yeou, my dearrs. 'Tis in the linhay in a box.”
”Us'll take un with us when we're finished here. I reckon yeou'm busy.
We'll bide here an'--'tis was.h.i.+n' day with yeou, simly,” said Stalky.
”We'm no company to make all vitty for. Never yeou mind us. Yiss.
There's plenty cream.”
The woman withdrew, wiping her pink hands on her ap.r.o.n, and left them in the parlor. There was a scuffle of feet on the gravel outside the heavily-leaded diamond panes, and then the voice of Colonel Dabney, something clearer than a bugle.
”Ye can read? You've eyes in your head? Don't attempt to deny it. Ye have!”
Beetle s.n.a.t.c.hed a crochet-work antimaca.s.sar from the s.h.i.+ny horsehair sofa, stuffed it into his mouth, and rolled out of sight.
”You saw my notice-boards. Your duty? Curse your impudence, sir. Your duty was to keep off my grounds. Talk of duty to _me_! Why--why--why, ye misbegotten poacher, ye'll be teaching me my A B C next! Roarin' like a bull in the bushes down there! Boys? Boys? Boys? Keep your boys at home, then! I'm not responsible for your boys! But I don't believe it--I don't believe a word of it. Ye've a furtive look in your eye--a furtive, sneakin', poachin' look in your eye, that 'ud ruin the reputation of an archangel! Don't attempt to deny it! Ye have! A sergeant? More shame to you, then, an' the worst bargain Her Majesty ever made! A sergeant, to run about the country poachin'--on your pension! d.a.m.nable! Oh, d.a.m.nable!
But I'll be considerate. I'll be merciful. By gad, I'll be the very essence o' humanity! Did ye, or did ye not, see my notice-boards? Don't attempt to deny it! Ye did. Silence, Sergeant!”
Twenty-one years in the army had left their mark on Foxy. He obeyed.
”Now. March!” The high Lodge gate shut with a clang. ”My duty! A sergeant to tell me my duty!” puffed Colonel Dabney. ”Good Lard! more sergeants!”